


The Look of Love or Dissembling

by royalmilktea



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Backstage, Ballet, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Performing Arts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 22:23:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8507794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalmilktea/pseuds/royalmilktea
Summary: Fakir inadvertently illustrates the merits of emoting. A little tale set after the anime in which we get to see a number of familiar faces.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Princess Tutu is the creation of Ikuko Itoh and Hal Film Maker. This is merely the view from my little mousehole into their amazing world.
> 
> Ahiru is already a girl in this tale and there is no explanation as to why. If you are looking for a tale explaining how such a thing is possible, may I suggest [Glimpses by Katchan00](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7362890/1/Glimpses) ?

Fakir remembers how enchanted Ahiru looked watching Sleeping Beauty. At the time he thought it was another indication of how foolishly emotional she was. She was thinking with her heart—if one could even call that thinking. She didn’t get that Mytho was safe being heartless. She didn’t understand the strategy involved. No, all she saw was her storybook prince looking lonely. He actually didn’t look lonely. He looked emotionless. Ahiru just _thought_ Mytho looked lonely. Then in some misguided attempt to console him, she begin collecting heart shards—willfully and ignorantly destroying the safety Mytho’s heartlessness provided.

As if being able to feel was such a magical experience! It wasn’t even like she was collecting only the enjoyable feelings—the kind of feelings you want to remember forever. No, she also was collecting things like disappointment and sorrow. Was having those emotions worth risking a life, lots of lives? Actually, Fakir sometimes envied Mytho his heartlessness—the prince was far too suggestible of course—but the clarity of purpose someone more focused (like Fakir) could achieve if foolish fears and doubts simply ceased to be…

When the students had gone to see the uninterrupted performance of Sleeping Beauty, Ahiru gasped when the princess pricked her finger and crumpled to the ground. She leaned forward eagerly as the prince neared the high hedge of thorns as if truly concerned about the outcome. Everyone knew the story (or so he had thought at the time). Everyone knew it had a happy ending. It didn’t make any sense to get that emotionally invested in the plot.

In the seasons that followed, Fakir had been able to observe Ahiru watching a number of ballets. If he performed in a ballet, she came twice—once on a night he was on stage and once on a night another dancer played the role and she could sit beside him and share the experience (her words, not his). Fakir had to admit, privately, that being coerced to attend as an audience member, and with someone so thrilled to be there, strengthened his performances. He knew what emotions to emphasize because he watched them dance across her face. He was never going to be known for his skill in emoting, but he was the most proficient dancer, technically speaking, and he had made progress.

Sometimes after a performance he would find Ahiru humming softly to herself as she dreamily made her way through some steps the prima ballerina danced earlier. She was never going to dance the roles on stage; affection didn’t blind him to her lack of innate grace which even devoted practice hadn’t erased. Perhaps if she had started her studies earlier… But of course she couldn’t have done so. She was a duckling mere moments before she became a student and had only hatched a few weeks before that. As Princess Tutu, she showed her body was capable of the most exacting movements but as Ahiru, she never lost her duckishness completely. It was innately a part of who she was and when Fakir found himself writing about her (nothing magical—intentionally magical—but nothing ever hinting of tragedy, just in case) he even called it part of her charm.

Ahiru never complained about being relegated to an audience member or occasionally an extra on stage. She loved ballet. She loved practicing it and she loved viewing it. Most of all she loved dancing it with Fakir, a frequent plea which he graciously indulged whenever possible. Though she wasn’t the most skilled ballerina, she certainly must be the most enthusiastic. She had earned a reputation as a good luck charm and was welcomed backstage with smiles and affection. Only a few did not take to the stage believing a bit more in the magic of their art after a brush with Ahiru and her delighted chatter of anticipation.

Still, Fakir found himself wanting to somehow put Ahiru on stage in the role of the beautiful, graceful princess. She would never voice a longing to dance the prima ballerina’s role, she was far too busy gushing about the skill and elegance of those so cast. She viewed the ballerinas in the elite class like fairies briefly visiting the mortal realm—their skill far beyond mere expertise and bordering on magic. However, sometimes in the darkened theater, Ahiru’s eyes would glisten with tears as she sat entranced by the dancers on stage and Fakir felt an answering twinge in his heart. Autor, with his wry sense of humor, once suggested he try his hand at giving the entire female ballet ensemble the flu but he didn’t want to know if he had that kind of power and knew Ahiru would be devastated to step into the spotlight under those circumstances. How Autor had known of his unvoiced desire to see Ahiru in a princess role was yet another thing Fakir didn’t want to know.

Perhaps, in a world where a few wisps of magic lingered still, a man with a tightly held dream might happen upon a chance to make it come true, and one day just such a thing happened. The elite class stopped all chatter as Monsieur Chat clapped his hands for attention and announced they next would be performing Cinderella. The tryouts would begin immediately and the female students were called forward one by one to perform a few specific sequences before being assigned a role. While the girls applauded each other’s performances, Fakir teased out a memory of the last time Ahiru and he had seen the ballet performed.

Lilie had laughed merrily at Ahiru’s surprise afterward. Apparently, she, in all seriousness, had asked Lilie and Pique (both ladies in the ballroom scene) how the prima ballerina had changed from her princess dress to rags so quickly. “It really seemed like magic” she cried, still caught up in the spell of the performance. Lilie had rhapsodized about the sweet, sweet, adorable naïveté from which Ahiru suffered. It rapidly became a tragic tale of Ahiru being taken in by a conman and forced to sell a kidney to pay off the wastrel’s debts… Or something of that nature. Truthfully Fakir learned to tune the blonde’s voice out when it fell into a certain patter. After suppressing her friend, Pique explained to the awestruck Ahiru that the girl in rags was actually a different dancer entirely. Even with such a prosaic explanation, Fakir listened to Ahiru’s enchantment with the magical presentation the entire way home.

They were making their way through the male dancers when Fakir was suddenly struck with the most providential idea. Why couldn’t Ahiru play the role of Cinderella’s double? His immediate reaction to the revelation was to dismiss it. He may have had a role in saving the town—more a reporter than a protagonist really—but he wasn’t in the business of creating happy endings. Defeating a great evil was a knight’s duty; granting wishes was best left to optimists and romantics, of which he was emphatically neither. While he performed the required routine, however, his mind was free to wander at will and turned the idea around a bit before declaring it quite sound indeed, leading the stoic dancer to surprise himself along with the entire room by asking an impulsive question to the ballet master before he even had the chance to announce that, yet again, Fakir would be playing the part of the prince on opening night.

* * *

Sergei Prokofiev’s sprightly notes surrounded them as Cornelia danced with her broom-prince on stage. “The dress is so beautiful,” Ahiru exclaimed for the hundredth time. Fakir marveled that her excitement had not waned a bit in the weeks leading up to opening night. “I feel like a real princess in it,” she continued. “I feel as elegant as Rue!” Her face shone as she pirouetted backstage, watching the chiffon layers float out around her. The other dancers grinned at her excitement as they came off stage. Finally it was Ahiru’s cue and she hurried past the exiting rag-clad prima ballerina to be in position before the smoke cleared. When it did, children in the audience cheered the magical appearance of the beautiful princess.

Fakir finished the pas de deux with what he hoped was a smitten expression on his face. It was the moment that set the rest of the ballet in motion so he put aside how ridiculous it was to plan to marry someone after one evening spent together. The sound of the clock striking midnight filled the theater as smoke filled the stage. Fakir found himself staring into Ahiru’s delighted face as the smoke cleared leaving the princess clad in rags once more. She took the moment she was facing away from the audience to mouth “Thank you” furtively and grin as if they shared some wonderful secret, then she was gesturing in shock at her clothes and the spotlit clock and whirling away to dash off stage before he could work up an answering smile.

He reached out to stop her and the edge of a tattered sleeve ran through his fingers. For a moment it felt like he had lost her again—lost her before he’d sorted out his feelings enough to let her know his heart. He almost cried out after her fleeing form but he stifled the urge and drew his reaching hand back to his chest, tightening his fist as he reined in his entirely unwarranted distress. In the next moment he executed his choreographed spin to search the ballroom, gestured his shock at her absence and, after beckoning his guards to follow, took off in pursuit.

Fakir took center stage holding Cornelia’s hand as thunderous applause swelled around them. Ahiru, he knew, was behind him amongst the ballroom dancers but she was on stage sharing in the audience’s delight. He looked forward to her describing the moment afterward as she bounced happily on the balls of her feet. Sometimes he deadpanned, “I was there you know,” but he knew her experience was worlds away from his jaded view of events. It was nice that the performance had gone well but it wasn’t what could be termed exciting—to his mind at least.

After another flurry of bows Fakir exited the stage. The director appeared to have been waiting in the wings for him. He clasped Fakir’s shoulder with a wide grin. “Did you hear that applause? I bet we’re going to have to raise the curtain for a second call tonight—all thanks to you!” Fakir turned a puzzled face to him just as he was swept on stage for the second curtain call. The crowd roared their approval as he took his separate bow and even Cornelia clapped and smiled at him. What was all the hoopla about?

“Oh they loved you!” the director crowed as he commandeered Fakir’s shoulder once more, steering him through the crowd backstage in the direction of his dressing room. All the while, he jubilantly forecast the upcoming boom in ticket sales and possibly extending the run for another weekend. “Marvelous, just marvelous! Of course I’m not sure Eckhard will fare well in comparison but it can’t be helped. We can’t have our stars wearing themselves out with back to back performances. Maybe you could give him some pointers though? That gesture at the end of act two? Beautiful! Heart wrenching! Takes your level of skill and a good bit of luck to move that quickly but we could have the double pause a bit to set it up… Of course your expression sold it and you can’t teach that! I heard that during intermission, a lady swooned out front recounting your sorrow upon losing your true love at the stroke of midnight—emotionally overwrought I suppose. She was fine after a few whiffs of smelling salts. But you’re going to have quite a queue at the stage door tonight my boy. Quite a queue!”

Fakir changed in a daze, startled to discover he was back in his street clothes when a knock sounded on his dressing room door. Ahiru bounded in and flung herself at him, leaving him nothing to do but embrace her or send her sprawling to the floor. “Oh Fakir I am so happy I feel like I’m floating! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she chanted as she pecked brief kisses—none landing on his mouth but several close enough to bring the blood rushing to his face. Ahiru appeared not to notice as she spun out of his arms and twirled deliriously around him telling him how this was a dream come true, how she had never imagined she could ever play a princess, how he was more magical than anybody ever alive anywhere, how she would never have a more wonderful night than tonight, and so on. Siegfried and Rue slid in through the unlatched door and watched her celebration with amused and delighted expressions on their patrician faces.

“You looked lovely!” Siegfried handsomely complimented a now somewhat stilled Ahiru. With a flourish he took her hand and dropped a kiss on her knuckles. Ahiru giggled and curtsied as she smilingly chirped, “Thank you, Your Highness!” as sweetly and naturally as any noble-born lady-in-waiting. She burst into laughter when she caught the look on Rue’s face. Rue was indeed the epitome of elegance which made the few times where the princess could truly indulge her sardonic wit all the more precious to her. Her face clearly read, “Drop the act” and one glance at his wife had Siegfried grinning and shifting into a much less stiff and formal posture.

“You were wonderful tonight, Fakir,” Rue smoothly stated with only the slightest hint of mockery as warning. Ahiru practically tripped over herself to confirm this compliment. “You really were Fakir! Everyone was saying so backstage! Oh I wish I could have seen you perform! But then I couldn’t have played my role and I loved that, it was more marvelous than I dreamed!” Rue’s sly voice interjected here and, while nominally addressing Ahiru, her eyes stayed fixed on Fakir’s face. “I don’t think you would have seen his wonderful performance from the audience, Ahiru.”

The duck-girl carried on as if she hadn’t heard (which was a distinct possibility), “Oh I wish I could have been in two places at once!” She stopped as she noticed the renewed blush spreading across Fakir’s face. “Rue,” she chided, “are you teasing Fakir?”

“Just the tiniest bit,” Rue smilingly replied. “He needs it, you know. You are too easily pleased to take the task on and everyone else is too scared of him.”

“He does look scary when he scowls,” Ahiru admitted thoughtfully as she solemnly studied Fakir’s increasingly uncomfortable expression.

“You know, Ahiru,” Rue said with an air of casual conversation, “We used to say being partnered with Fakir was like dancing with a soldier. Every maneuver was precisely executed but with such a stern expression!” She laughed as if they were just two school girls sharing gossip and Ahiru, sensing her friend’s true good humor, laughed too.

“But he’s full of emotion, Rue,” Ahiru cheerfully sprang Rue’s carefully laid trap and Fakir couldn’t resent it because she did so with the very best of intention—rushing to defend him. “He keeps them all wrapped up inside most of the time, but when Fakir smiles—which I’ve seen him do at least three times—it’s the nicest smile ever! And he’s loyal and honest and brave and awfully funny if you can make out what he’s muttering under his breath.” Thankfully, even Ahiru had to breathe once in a while (Fakir privately believed her time as a duck gave her better breath control than the opera students). Ahiru’s pause to inhale interrupted her relentless stripping away of Fakir’s façade. He grabbed the opportunity to derail the conversation.

“It was very kind of you both to attend tonight,” he took refuge in the polite banalities he usually snubbed.

“Oh we wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Rue returned with a smile bordering on feline. “The energy of opening night leads to a performance that may never be seen again.”

Siegfried chimed in with a friendly grin. “Although, Fakir, you would do yourself and the entire ensemble a great disservice if you let Rue’s teasing lead you to disguise emotions that inspired such a powerful performance. ‘A wise knight cares not what sharpens his sword but whether his sword is sharp.’”

Fakir sighed and let his gaze rest on the still glowing Ahiru, accepting that, in this one instance, everyone could see the love clearly written on his face.


End file.
